


Hands

by gildedfrost



Series: Reverse AU: Hands [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Android Hank Anderson, Dermatillomania, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Mental Health Issues, Onychotillomania, Picking, dermatillophagia, onychophagia, reverse au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-12-27 09:30:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21116540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gildedfrost/pseuds/gildedfrost
Summary: Connor picks his nails and bites his skin. Hank may not understand, but he's there for him.





	Hands

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick story. Not edited.
> 
> Warnings for nail picking/biting, skin picking/biting, and references to scars/non-graphic self-harm.

Connor’s toe hurts.

It’s not unexpected, he thinks, gritting his teeth as he keeps his gait steady and fights the temptation to limp and save his throbbing toe some grief. The pain is familiar, if unfortunate, and doesn’t actually hinder his performance provided he’s focused on something else.

He sits heavily in his chair and takes a swig of his coffee before sitting up straight and unlocking his terminal. Habitually, he raises his hand to chew on a nail, but forces himself to move his hand back down, instead tapping against the side of the keyboard with his thumb.

The android across from him--Hank--barely takes notice, glancing up at him only once before turning back to his screen, hand pearly white on the keyboard. The two of them couldn’t look more different: Connor with his perfectly maintained appearance, hair kept in place with product and all dressed up with a tie and jacket, while Hank wears a bright patterned shirt with the top button undone, chest hair peeking out. Hank used to dress up in his CyberLife-issued uniform, but since the revolution, he’s almost always dressed down. He even wears his hair down instead of up in a ponytail, though his beard remains neatly trimmed. The LED at his temple spins blue.

Connor rubs his own chin, some stubble growing in after a couple days of lapsing in his grooming routine. It doesn’t look too bad, but he should take care of it before it does.

He bites a fingernail once before forcing his hand down again.

If there’s anything alike between the two of them, it’s their eyes. They both have heavy bags beneath them, Connor’s from stress and late nights and Hank’s from--well, design. They make Hank look more human, he thinks, and they reflect his own late hours and stress. He might be doing what he was made for, but adjusting to life as a deviant android looks like it’s been hard on him.

Connor separates his hands after noticing he’s started picking at a cuticle and refocuses on his computer. The report is written; he needs to revise it and check it against the notes typed on his tablet before sending it to Captain Fowler. The case has been solved, but he doesn’t feel any better for it, not knowing that a family is missing one of their number tonight. There’s only a vague sense of relief now that the murderer has been put away.

Tapping at the keys and sipping his coffee, Connor’s distracted enough that when he finally finishes editing, he notices his coffee’s empty and his shift’s been over ten minutes. He sends the report with a final click before he can rethink it and he groans, stretching and hearing his wrists crack. “Crunchy,” he says quietly to himself, then he cracks his knuckles, too. Gavin gives him a pointed look from across the bullpen, but it’s brief, and he turns back to his own paperwork and coffee.

Connor grabs his styrofoam cup and tosses it on his way out. He can hear Hank following not far behind, grabbing the music player from his desk and god knows what else--he thought Gavin made a mess of his workspace, let alone whatever Hank’s let loose on his own. All that uptight android organization had disappeared the moment he deviated, apparently.

“You don’t need to follow me out every day, you know,” he says, taking off his suit jacket as they step outside into the late summer evening. The air is hot and heavy, a stifling contrast to the air conditioning inside, and Connor’s grateful he wore a short-sleeved dress shirt today. It’s an irritating trade-off--the lack of sleeves means his scars are on full display, both those from picking at imperfections and those otherwise self-inflicted--but nobody at the precinct has ever commented on them. Not even Gavin, which is a small bit of luck he takes without question.

He bites his nail three times before shoving his hand in his pocket to get his key. He’s never gotten comments on his nails, either. Not their dull, torn edges. Not the dried blood that’s inevitably present half the time. Not even the times he’s tried painting them with regular or foul-tasting polish, only for it to chip off as he picks and bites nonetheless.

It’s a bit of a shame; he’s got some nice colors in his collection.

“Maybe I just want to make sure your scrawny ass is getting some decent food,” Hank says. “Coffee and salad do not a diet make.”

“Neither does pizza.”

“You could do with a carb every now and then. Maybe even a calorie.”

“Fuck off,” Connor says without any heat and unlocks the car with a press of a button. He knows Hank is just poking fun at his poor self-care habits. It doesn’t sting; if it did, he would have asked him to stop long ago. “I’ll get a panini. Are you coming?”

Hank sits in the passenger side. “I’ve never had a panini.”

“Do you even eat anything that isn’t burgers?”

Hank snorts. “Plenty. I just like those the most. You remember that food truck we passed last week?”

Connor listens to him talk, smiling and nodding along as Hank talks about the foods he’s tried--the ones he likes and can’t stand--as they make their way through rush hour traffic.

* * *

Connor stands at his front door, staring at Hank on the front doorstep. “You’re supposed to be at work.”

“My partner was missing,” Hank says, shrugging. “And I’m on lunch.” He lifts the paper bag at his side, which smells absolutely delightful and makes Connor’s stomach growl.

“Oh,” Connor says. “You can come in, I guess.”

Connor feels completely underdressed. It’s almost noon and he’s still in his pajamas, a band tee and plaid pajama pants. It makes him feel exposed and vulnerable without a hint of his professional presentation left; he hasn’t shaved since before the weekend and his hair’s a mess. His arms are bare and two of his nails have been recently mangled into bloody messes. His toe stopped hurting a couple days ago.

He dips into the bathroom for a comb, running it through his hair as he crosses the room to check on his fish, making sure he’s fed them even though he already double-checked this morning and marked the chart next to the tank. “Sorry for bailing on you today. I know Mondays suck.”

Hank sets the food on the counter and his LED blips yellow, half-hidden beneath his hair. “I’m capable of doing my own work without a detective sergeant watching over my shoulder. You’re good, Connor.”

Connor follows, setting down the comb on his way. His hands find each other in those few steps, worrying at a nail. “We’re still partners. And I’m not really sick, I just…”

“You’d better not start apologizing for your mental health.”

And that’s it, he thinks. That’s the thing he never wants to talk about. It’s always there and Hank knows it--it’s obvious, no doubt, to an android. Connor hates missing work and being too anxious to come in, but more than that, he hates it being known. If nobody talks about it, it’s like nobody knows, no matter how obvious it is.

His breath catches and he tries to settle his nerves. “No apologies, then. But you don’t need to baby me.” He watches as Hank takes a couple tubs of curry out from the bag.

“I’m not. I’m looking out for my bullheaded partner who probably skipped breakfast.”

“On accident,” he grumbles. “I got busy cleaning.” He chews on a ragged bit of skin on his finger.

“Then you’ve got plenty of room for lunch. Come on.” Hank grabs two plates from the cupboard and passes one to Connor, then follows with spoons for the curries and rice. “It’s good food.”

Connor sets his plate on the counter. “I don’t get it,” he says plainly. “I know we’re partners, and I appreciate you coming here, but this is out of your way.”

“Maybe I wanted something to do on my lunch break. Eating alone is kind of pointless for me, you know? I can taste, but flavor is only part of the equation.”

“Food is a social experience. I get it. But here, me, when you know I’m out sick.” He looks at Hank dubiously.

“We’re friends, right?”

Connor blinks. “Are we?”

“I mean… yeah? We don’t just deal with each other because we’re paid to. We like each other, even the frustrating bits. You’ve been there plenty for me over the past ten months, which, by the way, is pretty much my whole life.” Hank grins, spooning food onto his plate. “I wanted to make sure you weren’t lonely.”

“You thought I’d be lonely?” Connor slowly starts serving his own food.

“I dunno.” He glances at Connor’s arms, then back to his eyes, LED flickering yellow. “You get stressed out. Seems it’d be easy to work yourself into some state of mind if you’re on your own. I wanted to check in on you, give you some company, and see if you needed anything. Namely, food.”

“What’s with you and food, anyway?”

Hank laughs. “It’s your people who came up with the stuff.”

“Yeah, but--”

“My taste buds may suck, but they _are_ there, Con.” Hank punches him gently in the shoulder. “C’mon, let’s eat before your stomach gets any louder.”

Connor follows him to the table, sitting and picking at a nail for a moment before he balls his fists to suppress the urge. “Hey, Hank?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! 
> 
> Find me on twitter @gildedfrost (18+). I also hang out in the [New ERA](https://discord.gg/2EKAAz3) DBH Discord server.


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